


to love the skies i’m under

by gaythorin



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, M/M, i knowwww beorn’s place and flower language has been done a billion times but not by ME, sometimes he needs encouragement too, the slash isn’t much unless you squint but i’m a sucker for them i can never be platonic, thorin makes me soft
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-07
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-13 08:15:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29898228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaythorin/pseuds/gaythorin
Summary: Bilbo, usually stuttery and sheepish, merely stares at him evenly, sizing him calmly up as if evaluating something Thorin cannot see. He hasn’t had to stifle the urge to squirm under scrutiny since his beard first grew long enough to braid. He meets the hobbit’s eyes, making a considerable effort to keep his expression something he hopes is regally neutral.Bilbo nods, apparently satisfied with whatever quality he has discovered. “You earned it once,” he says, gently and with conviction. “If you truly feel you’ve lost the right to it, you’ll earn it again. I didn’t fetch it for nothing.”—As Thorin drowns in a moment of self-doubt, Bilbo appears, ready to throw him a rope.
Relationships: Bilbo Baggins & Thorin Oakenshield, Bilbo Baggins/Thorin Oakenshield
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	to love the skies i’m under

It’s the end of the company’s first full day sheltering in the safety of Beorn’s great house, resting and licking their wounds before returning to the journey ahead. Bilbo feels he’s spent the day rather productively: he’s gotten his first proper wash in ages, given his clothes over to Dori for mending, and whiled away the afternoon in pleasant exploration of Beorn’s gardens and library. Most of the dwarves have been tending their various scrapes, sparring, or lazing about. All in all, it’s quite a welcome change of pace, if you were to ask Bilbo’s opinion.

It’s nearing midnight now, but Bilbo finds himself unexpectedly unable to fall asleep. The leader of their not-so-merry gathering has not come to bed, and though Bilbo knows the skinchanger will be keeping them safe again tonight, he can’t shake his uneasiness. With a sigh, he rummages in his pack for a moment before going creeping through the halls, carefully navigating the maze of snoring dwarves at his feet. After a brief and quiet search, he finds Thorin on the front porch, sitting alone on a bench.

—

“Beautiful, aren’t they?”

Thorin is startled out of his gloomy reverie by Bilbo’s soft greeting, though he manages not to jump. The hobbit steps outside and helps himself to the half of the bench Thorin is not occupying, his keen eyes flitting over Beorn’s carefully-maintained flora. In the darkness they all appear to be a mass of deep blue, only edges highlighted by the nearly-full moon, but in daylight the many varieties of wildflowers explode in a riot of color, playing host to huge, lazy bees and meandering sheep. Bilbo is the one who appreciates greenery, but even Thorin has to admit that their host has quite the view.

”Aye,” he says. “Quite the variety.”

The hobbit makes a noise of approval, engrossed in the process of packing and lighting his long, slender wooden pipe. He offers it to Thorin and the king inclines his head gratefully, putting it to his lips for a moment and letting the smoke curl in his lungs before returning it to Bilbo.

”Did you know that, to hobbits, every plant has a meaning? We call it floriography — flower language,” he says idly, letting the sweet smoke envelop them. “I wonder if these mean anything to Beorn.”

”Do you really?” Thorin asks, and he is surprised to find himself curious rather than contemptuous. If Bilbo had shared this knowledge a week ago, he’d have made a good show of snarking about halfling frivolity and the soft weakness of a people who communicate using flora, but now he finds it almost charming in its typicalness. Dwarves show devotion, status, employment, and intention through gems and metals: items made strong to endure like the sentiments behind them. For hobbits, he supposes flowers are fitting indeed.

”We do,” the hobbit chuckles. “Though it’s not much for covert communication or declarations of war or anything ghoulish like that — as you might expect, it’s mostly for expressing emotions. Grief, love, gratitude, trust, admiration, rejection, a desire to elope... Sometimes we hobbits find it easier to say what we want to say if we don’t actually have to _say_ it.”

Thorin considers this. “I know the feeling.”

Bilbo tilts his head invitingly. “I could teach you what these mean tomorrow, if you like.”

Thorin smiles at the image of a scandalized hobbit lass receiving a bouquet from her intended asking to elope; he makes a pleased sound and nods graciously, surprised again to find he expects he will enjoy the lesson. The two of them share their smoke in silence for a goodly while, Bilbo occasionally blowing smoke rings but not making a game of it. Together they listen to the quiet noises of night animals and insects, enjoying the gentle, cool breeze that occasionally makes the grasses and flowers whisper.

Breaking the prolonged silence, Bilbo makes a noise like he’s just realized something and turns from Thorin to reach under the bench. When he sits upright again, he’s holding his oaken shield in his hands, offering it. Thorin merely stares. Hadn’t he lost it?

Bilbo smiles kindly at his surprise. “I supposed something ought to be bothering you, to have kept you out here so long. I thought you might be missing it,” he says, and he places it gently in Thorin’s lap.

”...How came you by this?”

The hobbit makes a face. “It fell when an eagle scooped you up. I barely managed to get my hands on it before getting dragged off into the night myself. Trust me, you’re lucky you weren’t awake for that, it was an awful business,” he grouses, shaking his head and letting out another puff of smoke. Thorin lets out a quiet laugh at his indignation, tracing the rough, sturdy bark with one hand. He says nothing for a long time, looking at the old branch, turning over his emotions in his mind. Bilbo lets him have his peace, tilting his chin up to examine the unfamiliar stars.

Eventually, however, the fretful hobbit can’t contain his nervousness anymore; he tries to catch Thorin’s gaze with a frown.

”Truly, Thorin, are you alright? Did I do wrong in returning it to you? I’m sorry, I didn’t intend—“

”No,” the king says quickly. “No, you have my sincere thanks. This namesake has been with me a long time and you’re right, I do not feel quite settled without it.

”The truth... The truth is that I wonder if I still deserve it.”

Bilbo’s expression turns soft, but he says nothing, the silence he leaves tempting Thorin to continue filling it.

”I wonder if I have not been misguided. We would’ve been killed by the goblins if not for Gandalf’s swift intervention, and _you_ were down in those tunnels unprotected for quite some time. We escaped only to discover that, not only is my old enemy not dead, he’s also quite capable of getting the better of me,” he admits bitterly. “What right have I to lead my people into danger on what may well be a fool’s errand?”

Most of the dwarves he could never bring himself to confide in like this; they need a strong, determined, focused leader to motivate them to reach their goal. But with Bilbo... Somehow it is different. For once, Thorin had to work to earn someone’s respect; now that he, miraculously, has it, he doubts a midnight insecurity will rob him of it. As he is continuing to learn every day, Bilbo is made of sterner stuff than first he expected.

The hobbit lets his self-recriminating question hang for a moment, weighing his response. “Well,” he says finally, “If Azog were an easy foe to best, I doubt much of anyone would’ve been impressed by that hunk of wood the first time around. You’re their king, Thorin, and more than that you’re their — our — leader. You have every right. I told you before that I would help you take your home back, and I meant it. You don’t deserve to wander in exile forever.”

Bilbo, usually stuttery and sheepish, merely stares at him evenly, sizing him calmly up as if evaluating something Thorin cannot see. He hasn’t had to stifle the urge to squirm under scrutiny since his beard first grew long enough to braid. He meets the hobbit’s eyes, making a considerable effort to keep his expression something he hopes is regally neutral.

Bilbo nods, apparently satisfied with whatever quality he has discovered. “You earned it once,” he says, gently and with conviction. “If you truly feel you’ve lost the right to it, you’ll earn it again. I didn’t fetch it for nothing.”

His mouth quirks up into a shy smile at this; Thorin figures his nervousness is because he’s unsure if his attempt at comfort will be welcome, rather than a lack of belief in what he says. He blinks and dips his head gravely in gratitude, murmuring only, “Aye.”

The hobbit reaches forward to pat his hand where it rests on the shield’s cracked bark. He stands, taps out his pipe, and wishes him a good night, and then he is gone.

Thorin lingers on the porch for a while, tired eyes locked on the fields bathed in moonlight. He considers his life and his hopes for the future. He holds Bilbo’s faith close to his chest, lets it warm him. He buckles the wooden shield back into its place on his belt.

**Author's Note:**

> Lady’s Mantle: comforting love  
> Hydrangeas: gratitude, sincere emotion  
> Statice: success, sympathy  
> Dahlias: lasting bonds and commitment


End file.
